The Wild Hunt
by shotgunhero
Summary: Set before the events of the White Gold Concordant. The Silvenar has sent his best ranger to the Imperial capital to seek assistance in removing the Aldmeri influence from his land. Her journey takes her to brutal land of Elsweyr. In order to continue her mission, she must accept a suspicious offer of employment, unaware that betrayal lurks amidst the shifting sands.
1. Chapter 1

_Chapter 1: A Worthy Patron_

The sun blazed down on the markets of Dune. Brightly colored awnings fluttered in the dry, suffocating breeze. The Bosmer leaned against a towering palm, the only source of shade in the bazaar, and adjusted the veil that shielded her nose and mouth from the abrasive clouds of ever-present sand. Her bestial orange eyes narrowed to slits with her disgust as she surveyed the cat-like creatures that milled about the marketplace. Only these skooma-addled fiends could enjoy an existence in this inhospitable wasteland.

Hatred coursed through her veins as she watched them. These animals were in league with her enemy. They were just as much to blame for the "cleansing" at Falinesti. Cleansing … a Thalmor euphemism for genocide.

_The Wild Hunt take you all_, she thought, a defiant snarl grew beneath her veil. The peace of this place disgusted her. They should be screaming, and burning like her people, instead they haggled over dates and hibiscus oil in their strange savage tongue.

She had not intended to stop until she had reached western Cyrodiil, but she had underestimated the hostility of the terrain. With meager coin, and no food or water, Syl had little choice but to remain in Dune until the prospect of work arose.

Quick movement weaving through the throng of beasts caught Syl's eye. Breaking out of the crowd, an elven youth ran to her and she eyed him suspiciously, her hand subconsciously reached for her already light purse.

"A message for you, ranger," he said as he thrust a roll of paper at her. _A courier, working for the cats, no doubt_. Her frown deepened as she snatched scroll in one hand and with the other grabbed the boy up by the arm before he could dart away into the crowd.

"Who do you work for?" she growled. The young mer's golden eyes darted around the market as he plotted his escape.

"A merchant, I think" The boy explained, unperturbed by her aggressiveness. "I don't even know his name, and I don't ask no questions. I stay below notice. Joharrah brings me the messages, and I just take 'em to the ones she says, and they give me food. It ain't the best life, but the Bosmer ain't looked highly upon here. You oughta know that by now, ranger."

"And your parents, boy?" The young Bosmer shook his head and looked at the sandy cobblestone, and Syl nodded brusquely. The Thalmor "alliance" had cost the lives of many Bosmer, in this he was not alone. She took stock of the boy, fourteen years, at the most. Had he remained in Valenwood, he would have been near the age of apprenticeship. His black hair hung in dusty matted ropes. _Those would have to go_. Rangers didn't keep hair often as it invites ticks. Golden eyes pierced through the layers of grime that covered his face, hawk-like in their scrutiny. Sharp, cunning, and confident, all attributes needed to survive the prey they hunted. She nodded approvingly. He had not lied about being well fed. His well-developed muscle tone was not symptomatic of malnutrition; perhaps he would be strong enough to draw a bow. "Forget about these mangy cats, you work for me, now. I will teach you to honor Y'ffre again, lest you have forgotten how amongst these mongrels."

The young Bosmer studied her, suspicion lingering in his yellow eyes. "What makes you think that I want to go anywhere with you?"

She choked back the urge to laugh. _Impetuous little runt_, she thought. However, his suspicion was the mark of a survivor. A necessity if he ever hoped to live beyond the hunt.

"Your choice, boy. If you would rather live as a dirty rat in a den of cats, it will not be me who stops you. However, when you lie in your filthy gutter tonight, consider that you could have been greater, a proud hunter instead of cowering prey."

With that, Syl turned on her heel and stalked off into the crowded bazaar. She wondered if the boy, who stood alone now beneath the tree, had the courage to follow. If not, it was no matter. She had no patience for weakness; it would only lead them both to death. The Thalmor would not care that he was barely more than a child; there could be no mercy for either side. She turned into a dusty alley way that head towards the city gates, and disappeared into the shadows of the tall mud-bricked buildings that flanked her. Finally alone, she unrolled the scroll, curious at the contents within.

_Khajiit knows a worthy patron, and Bosmer needs coin, an expedition to the jungle. Much treasure you will find. Joharrah waits for your words._

Syl paused to consider the words. _A worthy patron_? Syl could not help be suspicious of this all too convenient prospect for coin, and even more so that this Joharrah seemed to know so much of her needs. Her stomach rumbled in anticipation of coin, the anticipation of food, quieting her thoughts of conspiracy. She checked her small pouch of coins, dismayed at the paltry amount. Nonetheless, she headed towards the tavern; at the very least she might be able to gather some information about this "worthy patron."

A thick layer of smoke hung in the air of the dimly lit tavern. Khajiit lounged on dusty velvet cushions that covered the sandy floor surrounding strange glass devices with long woven tubes that issued streams of aromatic smoke. Silence swallowed the din of conversation and laughter as the Wood Elf broke the threshold. Bestial eyes followed her steps through the tavern, and Syl's skin seemed to crawl under their surveillance.

"Welcome, Bosmer," a thick sultry voice purred from the back of the tavern. "Fine spices, and skooma to its liking, yes?" The Bosmer walked towards the voice, her eyes instinctively scanned the hazy room, finding nothing but shadows hiding amidst the heavy violet draperies that hung from the ceiling.

"I do not seek your wares, Khajiit. I seek only information," Syl said coldly to the female Khajiit who languished on an ornate Imperial-style couch. The cat's tail twitched seemingly in response, and a sound not entirely unlike mocking laughter rumbled through the tavern.

"Information, is it? Bosmer knows there is a price for everything in Dune," the cat purred, the multitude of bangles around her wrist clinking together as she absentmindedly examined her claws.

"Then what will you ask for information about Joharrah?" At this, the female Khajiit's ears perked, and she leaned forward towards the Bosmer. A host of tiny bells braided throughout her sleek brown mane jingled tunelessly.

"Joharrah is who it seeks? Khajiit knows this one. Come follow me, and we can speak more," the cat said, gesturing wordlessly to another Khajiit lounging on cushions not far off. With surprising agility, the cat rose and held back a curtain that opened into a brightly lit room decorated in vibrant fabrics. The servant scurried in behind them with hot coals that were deposited into the top of the smoking device, more ornate than the ones present in the outer room of the den.

"The sweetest moon-sugar in all of Dune," the Khajiit crooned, delicately pouring a bit of the sparking pink granules into the pipe. "Does the Bosmer wish for a taste?"

Syl's shook her head, her eyes narrowing. It did not take much to stoke the embers of the Bosmer's hatred, and the sloth and decadence of these cats threatened to overwhelm her fragile self-control. The Khajiit seemed to sense the change in Syl, her green eyes dancing in amusement as she took a long draw on the mouthpiece. Smoke streamed out the Khajiit's nose in two grey plumes, as she reclined against the bright orange and pink cushions. "So, it comes seeking knowledge, yes? It has great fortune, that, by chance, it comes to the warm sands of Joharrah's den."

"So, you are Joharrah, then? It is a strange turn of fate, indeed. Then, do tell, Khajiit, of this 'worthy patron' who would require the services of a refugee." The cat gave a pointed stare, and the room seemed to close in around the Wood Elf. Syl couldn't help but shift uncomfortably under the intensity of the Khajiit's scrutiny.

"Khajiit has many eyes in the city, and Khajiit knows much. Does a simple refugee escape the clutches of the Thalmor? Joharrah thinks not. Besides, one would not call the mate of the Silvenar a simple refugee," the cat's voice was low, in hushed tones that spoke of violence.

A menacing growl rumbled in the Bosmer's throat as her hand reached for the bone dagger concealed in her boot. The mangy cat would dare utter a word of him! For this, she would kill the arrogant beast, and take her leave of this miserable den of sin. However, he hand grasped at nothing, and her fury dissolved in a strangled gasp of surprise. Her blade was gone, without her notice. A smug look from the Khajiit's servant begged the question as to its whereabouts.

"Oh, did Joharrah's words cause offense, Bosmer?" The Khajiit asked in a feigned innocence. Unarmed as she was, Syl resigned herself to play the cat's game or risk losing her life. A flash of bared teeth, concealed within a smile, told the stakes for which she played.

"No, Khajiit. It appears that I am at a… disadvantage. That is all," Syl chose her words carefully. It was the first time that she experienced any sense concern that bordered so closely on fear.

"Ah… So, it is true, Bosmer." A knowing light gleamed within the cat's piercing green eyes, and she nodded. "Joharrah is the keeper of many secrets. But one question yet remains, does the Bosmer intend to accept employment, or does it wish to seek elsewhere?"

"It seems you know much of me… however, I know little of the offer," the Bosmer said. Syl fought to keep the edge from her voice. She was not familiar with the game of words, more accustomed to navigating winding deer runs than a conversation. Not to mention, that one of the players, evidently, had a network of spies at their disposal. Syl was not only outmatched, but also most certainly outplayed by the sly Khajiit.

"An ancient tomb lies deep in the jungle. Bosmer will act as a guide through the dangerous wilds of the south…"

"-Why not choose a local who knows the land?" Syl interrupted. In her land, outsiders seeking passage to the villages on the migrating oak-graht hired their Bosmeri guides locally. It seemed not only the most convenient solution, but also the most logical. In fact, a Khajiit cub would serve as a better guide than she, an outsider in this land.

"Many tribes of the jungle…" The Khajiit began to explain before trailing off. She sighed impatiently, appearing to grow weary of Syl's questioning. "It is a complicated political matter, not for Bosmer to understand. It knows what is required. All that remains is its answer. Another will tell it more, should the Bosmer accept."

Syl was wracked with indecision. So much about this felt wrong to her, but accepting the job would mean the opportunity to continue on with her journey, albeit with a slight detour. Death surrounded her people, and those whom it did not were subjugated. The Bosmer people longed for fall of the Aldmeri Dominion, and, so, it was also His wish. And there was no refusing the wishes of the Silvenar.

"I accept."


	2. Chapter 2

Chapter Two: Leave-taking

Syl scanned the parchment, again. Her eyes traced over the hastily scrawled lines that were intended to be a map. Each curving street meandered across the page, colliding with others to form an unintelligible web of intersections. None were named, nor any indication of landmarks that may guide her way. One glance at the surrounding buildings explained it. Simply put, no such landmarks existed. Off in the distance, pointed towers stabbed the orange sky, marking the Great Temple of Alkosh. Its massive dome was mostly obscured by the sand-brick buildings that hedged the narrow street closely on both sides. Only slight differences existed between a house and its neighbor. Hanging blankets and awnings decorated the windows and doors. Each woven in varying patterns, but all were the same garish colors.

The Bosmer scowled irritably at the map, and stuffed it in her pocket carelessly. It was useless to rely on that cat's pointless scribbles. It was not as if much explanation had been provided. Just this useless excuse for a map and what appeared to be a sealed letter of introduction tacked to the skooma den's door by her bone dagger. Syl fought a grimace of frustration at the mere memory of the exchange. The message it sent was plain - it was not she who was in control here. It was not a situation she was accustomed to. She stalked off southward, irritated at the waste of good parchment.

Behind her, a low, mean growl halted her steps, and the Bosmer spun on her heel, her bone dagger already in her hand. A large dog stalked out of an alley, crouching low on its haunches. Its teeth bared in a vicious snarl. A Redguard hunting hound by the look of it. Its tawny hide stretched taut across its ribs, little more than skin on bones. Still, there was fire behind its eyes, a proud creature that refused to surrender to hunger and death. She met it's challenging stare without flinching, and slowly inched towards it. With every step, the rumbling growl intensified, and the dog snapped at Syl angrily. However, it neither moved to attack or flee, rooted by the Bosmer's intimidating stare.

"Y'ffre's favor visits unlikely places, dog. You will succeed where this cat has failed me. You will show the way," Syl commanded as she raised her unarmed hand.

Green tendrils of light danced from her fingertips. The tingling hum of magicka was not present here. This was older magicks still, perhaps as old as time itself, something intrinsic to the very nature of her race. The boon granted to all Bosmer who still upheld their ancient Pact. The dog's snarl vanished, and it stared hypnotically at the slowly creeping light, drawing nearer, still crouched low to the ground. The tendrils condensed, wove together to form a thick green cable that slammed against the dog's skull. The animal seized, violently tugging on the magical leash. Bassy howls shattered the silence of the dusky street. With a grunt, Syl steadied herself, channeling her will into the green cable that grew thicker and more vibrant for her attention.

The struggle ensued, soundlessly now, and sweat beaded on the Bosmer's brow. She had not expected any resistance. Wolves beckoned to her command with a glance, and bears twice as fierce. Although, this was her first attempt to command a domesticated creature. Perhaps, there was not much of nature left in an animal so touched by mortal hands. Her frown deepened as she probed the animal's mind for instincts still wild enough for Y'ffre's blessing to take purchase. The hunt was all that remained. Fleeting sensations of wind whipping at fur and the smell of prey clinging to leaf and soil shivered through the magical cables, and the dog stilled suddenly. A single, final shudder echoed through the animal's body. Green embers pulsed behind its now passive eyes.

Syl wiped her forehead, and looked at the dog, nodding in satisfaction. Fortune was truly on her side this day. Pigeons, rats, and small, sentient felines were the only common creatures that roamed the labyrinthine streets of Dune. None of which were suitable for the task at hand. Wolves seldom approached the cities were men and mer would gather, and dogs were so rare a sight in Elsweyr they were often caged for novelty's sake. Yet, here one sat, his tail rhythmically thumping the cobblestone.

"Now, dog, we seek the Jewel of the Sands. I am told it is a tavern and the staging grounds for this 'adventure'," Syl said.

It wasn't necessary to speak the command. It was not as if the creature knew the Common Tongue. Animals spoke a different language, of sight and smell. They had no use for names, but how could she begin to describe a place she had never seen or smelled? She ruminated a while, settling on the musky smell of horse flesh and the heavily spiced scent of a Khajiiti cooking pot. All common smells, but they would have to suffice. To her surprise, the dog rose, and barking twice, disappeared into the alley behind them.

With an indignant huff, the Bosmer loped after. Hours passed, and the sun clung to the edge of twilight. It seemed to Syl that they must have visited every common tavern within Dune that boasted a stable. With a shake of her head, the dog would lift its nose to sniff the air before bounding off in a different direction. Finally, after all other options were surely exhausted, the pair reached their destination.

The Jewel of the Sands was a dingy sandstone inn, perhaps only slightly larger than the others. Unremarkable in almost every way, with exception to the large group of travelers that moved about the entrance with an obvious air of leave-taking. To her surprise, not all were Khajiit, although most were. Some few foreigners milled among them.

A self-important looking Altmer stood apart from the crowd, eyeing the collective disdainfully. His purple silken robes spoke of magic. She ground her teeth without thinking. Beside her hatred and distrust for the Altmer people, her feelings towards the Khajiit seemed fickle and petty. The dog bristling at her side reminded her of herself, and she forced a calm to swallow her stormy thoughts. Her eyes resumed their circuit.

Beside the mage stood a mountainous Nord, who continuously mopped sweat from his brow, cursing often and loudly. And was, much to his apparent chagrin, ignored by all. The rest of the band of travelers moved with purpose, attending to packs lashed to large, hump-backed beasts of burden and massive senche. Syl weaved in among them. The hound at her heel garnered the occasional odd look, but most were too busy to pay her much attention.

"Wise ones watch their step or find a face full of camel spit," an amused, feminine voice slurred beside her.

Without another word, the speaker bent to adjust the saddle girth on a particularly enormous striped senche, muttering soothing words in her savage tongue. The senche raised its head to give Syl what seemed to be an appraising stare. How the scales balanced, she could not tell, but it unsettled her nonetheless. Perhaps, it was the intelligence she found in the senche's eyes that felt out of place on a such a beast, and despite her pride, she found herself a reason to look away.

Instead, Syl turned her attention to the speaker. A fellow Bosmer, at first glance, but upon a second, it could not be said with a certainty. Her silver hair, although uncommon, was not unheard of. But the fine tufts of down at the tips of her knife-shaped ears were harder to explain. Not to mention, the strange oval markings of black and gray, that crept up the mer's neck and down her arms, reminded Syl more of the dappled fur seen on some Khajiit than any Bosmer. The tattoos on her face were no less striking, creating a distinctly feline appearance where otherwise one would not be. Syl's frown grew deeper as she tried to decide between confusion and disapproval.

Before her thoughts could reach their conclusion, the stranger grinned widely, warmly. "You have the look of one new to Elsweyr," she said. "In some circles, this one is called Daniya."

She certainly did not speak the Common Tongue like a Bosmer, that much was plain. But this Daniya, was certainly not a Khajiit either.

"In some circles, not all?" Syl wondered aloud. To which Daniya responded with a nod. An awkward silence bloomed between them, and Daniya raised an expectant eyebrow. "I am called Syl. I was to rendezvous here with Joharrah's expedition. I have papers."

"Joharrah's expedition? Is that what she told you? Pah!" she scoffed, but took the parchment anyway. She lifted the scarlet seal carefully with her belt knife. Syl watched as Daniya's ice-blue eyes flickered across page. Whatever she found seemed to displease her.

"She thinks to order this one about as if this Khajiit is one of her pawns, does she?" she muttered, pointing at herself emphatically. Daniya made it clear exactly what she thought of being used.

"Khajiit?" Syl finally asked, but Daniya just made an irritated face that said much and explained little before launching into a hushed tirade.

"Joharrah," Daniya spat the name out as if it tasted badly. "Daniya knows this one well. She thinks she is a crafty cat, like fox in cat's clothing, but she is not so cunning as she thinks, so Daniya says. She does not know all that Daniya knows."

The words were not said boastfully, but said simply as if stating a fact well known to all. And perhaps it was. At this point, Syl would not be surprised to find the lowliest urchin in Dune was actually its most powerful information broker operating in disguise. Her feet itched with the urge to put distance between herself and the city as soon as possible. In the wilds, whatever danger awaited them could be conquered with a blade or bow, a straightforward type of danger that was easily understood.

"You will want to meet the rest of your companions, yes? Come, follow this one. She will show you many faces. Some new, maybe some known." Daniya walked off into the crowd, leaving Syl to follow.

Syl kept the same brisk pace as the one who called herself Khajiit. Daniya did not need to push or shove. The crowd parted before her as if to seem incidental, but clearly, it was not. The Bosmer noticed that she did not share in the same luxury, having to dart and weave to find an empty path or else walk closely to Daniya's heel.

They stopped in front of the Altmer Syl had seen earlier, and Daniya nodded deferentially. The High Elf raked his eyes over the newcomer. His nose crinkled as if he smelled something unpleasant. Syl could not decide if he truly had, or if, by virtue of being an Altmer, this was just his natural, resting expression.

"Arangar, Shimmerene Mages Guild." He bowed his head to her begrudgingly. She could see it took a lot of effort.

Syl turned her attention to the Nord. His shirt was unlaced to his chest, and sweat dripped from his flushed face into his long red beard. He did not appear to handle the desert's heat well. He was almost twice Syl's height and perhaps three times as wide. Certainly, he was formidable to any he named his enemy. The massive Nord paused momentarily from wiping his brow to spit at her feet.

"He is known to all as Ragnar Wulfblud. He does not know many words beyond his cursing, it seems," Daniya explained, shrugging.

"When do we leave this thrice-cursed desert, you hairless cat?" Ragnar snarled.

"Pah!" she scoffed dismissively in response, but Syl could see her eyes narrow dangerously. "As soon as you find me the other newcomer."

"That dirty skeever's probably run for the hills by now," Rangar said, spitting again in distaste.

"Who ya callin' skeever, old man?" The young mer leaned against the side of a nearby building, cleaning beneath his nails with a black belt knife. When he noticed Syl, he nearly dropped the blade, fumbling it back into his belt. "Oh... Ah... Ranger, you... You came."

"Your ma come here to collect you, boy?" Ragnar sneered. "She ought to trounce you double after she dips you in a flea bath." His laughter was loud and coarse, and he did not seem to realize he laughed alone.

"The time has come for leaving, no?" Daniya said.

"Now? We have only just arrived," the Altmer said irritably.

"Yes. We will travel on cooler sands. You will be thankful of it," Daniya said.

Daniya gestured wordlessly for Syl to follow. It was becoming more and more apparent that whoever she had been in Valenwood, amounted to nothing here. Less than nothing if she was expected to heel when beckoned. But heel she did, following closely to the mer's shoulder as the bustle opened before them. She doubted her master would recognize her now, always chiding her for pridefulness. He was surprised as she that the Green had chosen her, but Syl vowed to teach lambs the art of meekness. Whatever would hasten this fool expedition was worth whatever cost to her pride.

"Dark Moons, but this one hopes that you will treat my senche better than you have your dog," Daniya muttered. Her mouth formed the word dog awkwardly, shooting a slant-eyed stare towards the mongrel heeling Syl as closely as Syl did Daniya.

"He is something of a new addition," Syl said dismissively. For the Now, Syl tried to pay him little mind. Her own stomach gnawed at her just thinking of the animal's condition. "And the senche will not be necessary, I assure you. There is no distance I have not been able to cover on my own two feet."

"This one regrets that it is not negotiable, Bosmer. Ride the senche, you must," Daniya said. She sounded truly remorseful, as if she wanted Syl to ride the senche as little as the Bosmer herself did. "There is no time for... What was his word? Ah, yes. Lollygagging. Hah! These Nords have such amusing speech, yes?"

Daniya stopped short in front of the striped senche. He nuzzled her outstretched hand. "He is called Kabal, and he stands high among my most favored senche. He is fast, strong. A battle-cat for the worthy."

The manner of which she spoke was much the same as a ranger praising a favored apprentice, rather than a stablemaster of a favored mount. The senche caught the Wood Elf in his green-eyed stare and huffed almost contemptuously. Daniya smiled toothily. "Kabal is not yet convinced, but he will behave himself," Daniya said pointedly. If a senche could be said to roll his eyes, this one did. The silver haired mer shook her head, again the ranger to a willful apprentice, and disappeared in the crowd. Her growling orders rang throughout the busy street.

Left alone with the beast, they just stared at each other in mutually indignant silence. The dog whined and pressed his nose into her leg, nudging her to speak to the senche.

"Look," Syl began. The senche stared back blandly. "This would not be my ideal arrangement, either. But I'm sure you have been told that little choice remains to us. For the duration of this expedition, I will be in your care."

Seemingly pleased with her response, Kabal inclined it's enormous head.

"By Jode and Jone, it is done. We move!" Danita's voice urged everyone forward.

With a woeful look at Kabal, Syl said, "Shall we, then?"


	3. Chapter 3

Chapter Three: A Black Wind Rises

What left Dune was a long and noisy procession. The animal handlers urged their charges forward with many a harsh "giddap", or some such sound that could be found in their growling language. The animals answered them with disconsolate grunts and wheezes, but eventually lumbered forward.

Syl had never ridden an animal herself, but she had seen the occasional Breton and Imperial visitors in the Valenwood mounted on their horses. Not many, but enough to see how the thing was done. She heeled her mount sharply in his flanks and Kabal issued a grunt of his own before breaking into a bouncy trot that set her backside slapping the high-cantled saddle uncomfortably. She gripped the reins in irritation and eyed the procession again. It really was a procession, crawling forward with a nauseating sense of pomp and circumstance, although Syl could not see why. They had the wide cobblestone street to themselves, as dusk had long since settled below the horizon. With the pace they now kept, it might take the remainder of the Era to reach their destination. And as it was, she doubted she could reach the city gates without a good set of bruises for her consolation. The many leagues to wherever this damnable jungle was did little to ease her temper. Syl only hoped that outside the city Kabal would be allowed a little speed and perhaps settle into a more comfortable gait. She sawed at the reins in an attempt to steer the senche around the long line of pack animals to where Daniya rode on an imposing white-maned animal with a fearsome scar slashing its face from ear to muzzle. Kurzja she had called him.

Syl still had not made up her mind about this Daniya. She seemed to flourish mystery like a bard did his cloak, seeming to take great pleasure in the floundering ignorance of others. It seemed to be the way with all cats, from Syl's admittedly limited experience. But no matter that Daniya counted herself among their number, Syl was yet unconvinced of that fact.

Upon seeing Daniya, she adjusted Kabal with another jerk of the reins. Syl caught the woman's gaze, and the pallor of rage in Daniya's already fair complexion look white as bleached spidersilk. Kurzja rounded smoothly, and Syl noticed that Daniya had not even touched the reins. The Bosmer didn't have time to think on it long, because she was assaulted by the woman's angered shouts, growing louder as she grew nearer.

"Ack! No, no, no!" Daniya waved emphatically. "Had this one known you would jerk Kabal around like some Torvalian sway-backed plow nag, Daniya would have made you ride your dog instead."

Syl looked back at the cur for a second of hopeful appraisal. It could hardly be worse, could it? At least the detestable saddle would no longer be an issue. Syl felt somewhat the fool when the poor, emaciated creature whimpered in sympathetic protest. Being in foreign lands so long was beginning to scramble her brains. She snatched hold of her wandering thoughts with a forceful determination. Daniya had continued on her tirade all while. Syl had paid attention enough to get the jist of it, if only just.

"Yes, yes, of course," Syl supplied when Daniya had paused for breath. "I will consider all you have said."

Daniya's silver eyes narrowed nearly to slits. "Daniya is not convinced. Perhaps the camels would be-" She was cut off by a sudden, low roar from Kabal. "If that is your wish, Kabal." Another growl answered her.

"Dark sands. This one does not know where he finds the patience," Daniya muttered. A mutter meant to carry and it did. Daniya's head snapped up to the sound of a pack animal's grunts and a mer's alarmed cries. One of the animals had broken free from its handler, its burden, a certain silk clad traveller, shouted wordless cries as he and the animal disappeared down an intersecting lane. "By Jone and Jode, does it never end? We have not even left the city yet." Kurzja wheeled around, and Daniya turned to shout over her shoulder, "Heed this one's instructions, Bosmer. If not for your sake, then for Kabal's, no?"

Syl grimaced as she attempted to recall the instructions to her mind. Perhaps she had not paid as good attention as she thought.

"You seem to understand speech. It may be preferable to handle matters in this way. Follow after these… after these…" She was at a loss for what those pack animals were called. "These things… Until you get other orders."

There was no outward response from the senche, but he started forward in a sinuous, rolling gait. That the pace he now kept was neither slower, nor faster, than his previous gait did not escape the Bosmer's attention. She eyed the animal suspiciously. Had it been intentional?

It was driven from her mind as the spacious street curved sharply to reveal the city's gates rearing from the gloom of twilight. Her widening gaze travelled up, up, up to the faces of two Khajiit colossi, one male and the other female, standing sentinel at either side of the gate. Their height threatened to rival the smallest of the oakgraht. No small feat, considering the smallest migrating tree city would dwarf even the richest merchant-prince's most opulent palatial estate. The two granite figures, rising against the deep purple expanse of sky, seemed no less imposing. Syl could not begin to calculate the amount of stone needed to carve so large a statue. All the more impressive, each seemed hewn from a single block of stone. In their hands were great bowls laden with bonfires. The light from the fires afforded a better view of the statues' feline features than the night otherwise would have afforded her.

"Interesting, is it not?" She did not need to look up to know who addressed her. The precise way he pronounced each syllable told all. That she had not heard him approach spoke volumes for her interest in the statues, but she kept her face smooth. She would be damned before she would acknowledge that this Thalmor scum had caught her unawares, even for a moment. The hooves of his fine, arched-neck white mare should have given her plenty of warning. It was only a small consolation to see he had discarded the strange beast Daniya had forced upon him. Altmer were not known to toil in discomfort long. This Arangar had lasted less than an hour, and Syl thought herself generous to estimate that much by half. He must have taken her silence for consent, for he continued on. "First Era construction, built during the long compact of the Khajiiti and Aldmeri peoples, unless I miss my guess. And surely, I do not. The Summerset Isles have a long and storied past. In fact, the High Seat of House Rillis once waged a battle here long ago. My fourth cousin on my mother's side..."

"A fine tale Daniya is sure, but one that will wait for another day, yes?" Daniya said, giving the High Elf a withering look as Kurzja padded up beside them silently. "Unless, of course, the High Elf wishes to remain behind. We cannot wait for anyone, no matter how important he thinks he is. Come, Bosmer. For you, there is no choice. Come."

To Syl's startlement, the snaking line of the pack animals disappeared beyond the gates. Syl coaxed Kabal forward with a click of tongue, and the agile senche bolted forward to catch up.

What had begun with an edge of excitement grew weary by the third hour, tiresome by the fourth, and bleak by what was now the sixth hour of sitting Kabal's high-cantled saddle. Syl lolled drowsily, a tired bundle swaddled in a brown cloak, swaying with each step the senche took. She lost count of the hours since last she slept, and the shapeless heaving of the earth dulled her senses that much further. Her eyes slid across a ruined fortress. Its black, broken towers jutted upwards like jagged teeth. Syl tried to focus on them, anything to break up the eternal dunes.

She flinched under the sudden assault from a particularly harsh wind, the chill all the more bitter for the heat of the day. She huddled deeper into her cloak, waiting for it to die away. But it did not. The wind persisted, growing even, to the point where it ripped her cloak away, trailing it out behind her like a dingy banner. On instinct, she scanned her surroundings. In the valley, there was nothing much she could see. Faint wisps of sand caught in the wind skittered down the dune. She did not know what she looked for, but the fist of lead growing her in stomach urged her to look for something.

"Move," she growled to her mount, and he was eager to obey. He loped up the steep hill of sand effortlessly.

The wind grew more forceful as they approached the top, and when they finally crested it, Syl found what she looked for. The western horizon was obscured in a rapidly approaching wall of cloud so thick the light of the moons guttered out like a snuffed candle. It took her several moments to realize that it was not clouds, but sand. Without thought she jerked the reins, wheeling Kabal around. The pack train snaked off into the distance and her eyes danced between them and the ruins beyond, a good mile to the east. She shook her head in frustration. They could never close the distance in time. One look over her shoulder proved that. In that short amount of time, the sand cloud had halved the distance between them.

"Y'ffre shelter and protect us," she muttered and did the only thing she could think to. She lifted her hunting horn and blew a long, plaintive blast. Syl only hoped it would give them an extra moment's warning. "Run! For your life, cat. Run!"

Kabal bounded forward, kicking up great plumes of sand as he scrambled hastily down the dune. She did not even pause to look behind to see if anyone managed to follow. Crouched as she was in her saddle, it was all that she could do to maintain her calls on the horn. Syl thought she heard a lonesome keen behind her, and it was at that moment that the howling, black wind swallowed her.


	4. Chapter 4

Chapter Four: The Torpor's Shade

Darkness crashed over her like a wave. The torrent bellowed, tore at her cloak, trying to whip the thing about in every direction at once. The wind, thick with sand, slashed at her with its infinite tiny daggers, abrading every inch of exposed flesh. Within minutes her forearms grew slick and warm with her own blood, but she gripped the her hunting horn in a white knuckled fist. Surely some must have heard, and were smart enough to make towards the ruins. Time stretched out and began to lose all meaning in the howling void. If not for the rhythmic sway of the senche's gallop, Syl would not have sense movement at all.

Suddenly, Kabal skid to an unsteady halt, and Syl collapsed to the sandy ground in equal parts relief and confusion. The fortress loomed with a presence of sheer enormity that hadn't existed when she had seen it from a distance. Twisting spires leaned in odd directions, uncomfortable for the eye to follow. She tore her eyes away from it with some effort. The architecture was strange to her, as if made to please some other creature's eye, not Mer or Man. What manner of place was this? Syl found it did not matter so much as long as it offered shelter.

It took a moment to realize the sandstorm was gone. The torrential wind was little more than a tickling breeze, carrying a warmth that her body soaked up readily. A heady, floral scent wafted from a ruined colonnade with half of the columns collapsed. Kabal followed after, lifting his muzzle to breathe the air in heavy gulps. A curtain of black clouds roiled angrily overhead. Her vision slid across it unseeing, unknowing, uncaring.

_Just a little farther. _That smell, hyacinths in her mother's spring garden, of so, so long ago. It tickled the edge of her memory. A doorless arch led them further into the building.

"This… It is good enough." Her fingers fumbled at Kabal's girth strap. She let the saddle fall where it did. Now that she was no longer fleeing for her life, the exhaustion of the flight and the fatigue of her muscles set in. Her entire body pulsed with a throbbing ache. "We can rest here for just awhile. Then... we will look for the others."

As she lay on the warm stone, the sweet aroma tickled her nostrils again. Warm, soothing. _Yes. Rest here for just awhile, and then… I'll... just rest... here… _A deep sleep washed over her.

* * *

"Wake up, fool girl!" A soft soled boot nudged her side.

Syl yawned and stretched. She blinked blearily into the new dawn's slanting rays. It took longer than usual to recover her senses. Strange images of dark, roiling clouds and the jagged tops of twisting spires still clung to the edges of her mind. What a horrible dream it had been.

"Wha- Master Aelan?" Syl sputtered anxiously. She scrambled out of her bedroll, and jumped to attention.

"And who else did you think it would be, girl? How many times do you expect me to call you?" Her mentor followed her around the campsite, berating her as she navigated the practiced ritual of breaking camp. Master Aelan might have the temper of a badger with a toothache, but he was something of a legend in the Valenwood. No mer could shoot better than he, and it was said he once bested Arnlorn Strongbow in a competition of knives. However, his best skill was tracking, and Syl soaked up every shred of knowledge he would impart. Even after all their time together, she was still in awe of his abilities. "You are no easy charge, that is for sure. Being your master is a thankless task. Thankless, I say! If not for your skill with the bow I would have left you in that…that… Well, let's just say I would have left you!"

His eyes became brown pools of sympathy. She avoided his gaze, pretending to be intent on lacing her boots. Master Aelan was from the Bramblebreach, and he held a great disdain for what he called city-folks. But he would dare not insult her home. Not now. Even he had the sense to tread softly. She favored him with a small smile. It was not his fault. Things were as things were. Nothing could change it. She had to live in the Now.

"Of course, Master," she said after his tirade concluded. She inclined her head, and slung her bow over her shoulder.

"Do you know what today is, girl?" Her master's voice softened.

Syl gave him a tight nod. "We go to meet the Silvenar."

Not she, exactly, but Master Aelan had been called. The summons came not two days prior, while they were on a hunt. Some of her mentor's hunts were known to last months. During those times, sight of other mer was rare, and news of the outside was unheard of. An even greater impossibility was a stranger coming to the tents, seeking her mentor by name, and sequestering him inside for hours. It was not until after the stranger left that Master Aelan filled her in on the news.

Gil-Var-Delle was gone. A Daedric horde, seemingly summoned from air, slaughtered the entire city and set the oakgraht ablaze. Nothing was left alive. She had been too stunned to really comprehend it. The smiling, proud faces of her brother, mother, and father as they sent her off to her apprenticeship with Master Aelan, not even a year gone. Gil-Var-Delle had been such a beautiful place, a place so full of life and warmth, a place that was no more. It still barely registered as true.

The newly raised Silvenar, little more than her age or so the rumors said, had called a moot to discuss the threat. Two days at the same ground covering pace, but not much longer now. Little more than a morning's march left. She did not have to examine the moss on the trees to know they headed North. She could _feel _every step that separated her from the city of Silvenar. No longer just a vague tickling sensation in her mind, as it had appeared some few weeks before. She could point to it blindfolded now. Her destiny lay there as surely the sun would rise the next day. There was no way Syl could deny it. The threads of fate had tangled her up, and pulled her along this path.

She looked up from the dirt footpath and blinked. In a densely wooded thicket to the left, an arch of polished black stone peeked from behind the trunk of wizened oak. A skittering noise rustled further in the wood, the soft whisk of carapace on carapace. Without thinking, she slid her bow off her shoulder, nocking an arrow. Master Aelan walked on without her, somehow failing to notice she no longer kept pace beside him. The arch called her gaze to it again. She stepped closer, carefully, without any sound. Inside the arch, a murky, purple gloom rippled. She wrinkled her nose in distrust as she gently probed the rippling surface with her hand. Her fingers slipped through the quagmire, Syl found no other word for it, and felt as if she had touched a tepid pond. She jerked her hand back, wonderingly. She glanced over her shoulder as Master Aelan turned a curve in the path, out of sight. Silvenar pulled at her, Master Aelan did too, but there was something, something that tickled the edge of her memory, something she needed to do. She steeled herself with a breath and stepped through.

* * *

Diaphanous, red towers climbed towards the sun, twisting and twining like rays. It _was_ the sun itself, rising from the loamy earth, so absolute was the splendor of the Silvenar's palace.

"Glory to you, First Ranger. Have you returned to Silvenar, First Ranger? The bows are eager to follow you again into battle." A guard in an antlered helm greeted, thrusting a fist to his shoulder in salute. Syl wondered at the title. There was so much she did not know about her mentor. The guard spoke to him with a familiarity beyond the hero-worship of Master Aelan's skill.

"Do you anticipate battle, boy?" her mentor asked. His brows furrowed thoughtfully.

"Just so, First Ranger. The Silvenar, the Green favor him always, has sent a call to the rangers, summoning them in defense of the city." The guard shook his head. "For what cause I do not know, but the bows stand ready in defense."

"Thank you. I will stand with the guard if the call is sounded. Be steadfast, and Y'ffre guide your steps."

The guard nodded, awe painting his cheeks pink. "And you, First Ranger."

Syl followed Master Aelan over the wide bridge, seemingly made from the petal of flower so large that gigantic couldn't fit for a description. The strange sap-wrought palace towered overhead. The pull in the back of her mind tugged more forcefully than ever. So intensely Syl barely noticed the multitudes of courtiers as they scuttled like insects in showy gowns and jackets, silks of every hue. The beauty and grandeur of the people and the palace blinded Syl towards the people themselves. She only noticed their garments, not the tight eyes behind their forced smiles. Had she seen, she would have sensed a tension so palpable it was nigh on the edge of breaking.

"What has happened here…" Master Aelan muttered beneath his breath. With a shake of the head, he stalked through carpeted wide hallways, and Syl lengthened her stride near to a jog in order to keep pace. He deliberately turned through a nondescript set of doors into a private quarters. He walked straight to a hidden staircase that led into the kitchens. Syl dodged cooks and scullery maids, as she followed Master Aelan through rooms of the palace more random than the last. It was absolute madness, but Master Aelan picked their path with the surety of deeply ingrained knowledge. He knew where they were going. Deeper and deeper they went into the palace, Syl thoroughly losing all sense of direction on that strange rabbit-trail of a journey.

Master Aelan paused at a relief carving on a wall, along another wide corridor identical in every way to the several they had traversed already. He pressed the center of a glass daisy, and a piece of wall shuddered open to reveal a domed room. The walls slanted upwards towards a small hole in the center of the ceiling. Light filtered down, centering on a round, flat mushroom in the center of the room. At least thirty chairs were pulled up around it like a table. Each chair but one was filled with merchants, aristocrats, and rangers. Syl thought she saw the King himself in among them. Rangers who brought apprentices with them had the youths kneel beside their chairs, all with eyes fixed on the floor with blank expressions. Syl's gaze swept a quick circuit around the room, until it slammed to a halt. For a time, all they did was look at each other. She with a wild-eyed, almost fearful expression, and He, The Silvenar, with eyes like tranquil forest pools filled with a strange knowing that made Syl quiver with a sudden chill. The pulling feeling pulsed. Her destiny was somehow caught up with this mer. The Silvenar, she could barely believe it. She tore her eyes away and knelt beside her mentor. Her heart thundered in her throat.

"Now that we are all here, let us begin," a soft, mellifluous voice instructed. The Silvenar's voice was like a cool spring bubbling between two stones or a warbler crying on a brush oak, a melodious trill.

"Refugees from the north come in droves at the border. My guards are nearly overwhelmed processing all of them," a plaintive voice whined.

"Turn them aside. They abandoned their race when they abandoned the Green Pact!" a harsh voice answered.

"All who seek refuge are welcome to the Green," the Silvenar said.

"And when they begin to cut down our trees to make their cities? What then, Silvenar?"

"An understandable concern, Baerlorn," the Silvenar said consideringly. "Shelter them on the plains, and instruct them in our ways. All should be welcomed back to the fold, to the Pact. Paitr, kindly provide the materials for tent making until the Spinners can grow their lodgings."

"The cost would be tremendous, Silvenar," a squeak to her left said.

"And what is the price of some leather scraps against the cost of their lives?" It was not said sharply, but the squeaking voice blathered obsequiously. And so it was with every murmur of dissent, he parried them aside like a blademaster turns an opponent's thrust. Even the most brusque Bosmer was eventually converted to his way of thinking, and it was then the planning began in earnest.

A tolling gong cut off the din of conversation, replacing it with worried murmurs. Syl heard the scuffling of feet and whisking of silk as the dignitaries rose. Syl waited for what seemed an eternity for her master's signal. Her eyes bored holes in the sap-wrought floor. Muted shouts echoed from somewhere in the palace. Sweat sprouted from every pore and still she waited. _What could be happening out there?_

The door opened, but no one came. Syl rose, deciding Master Aelan had forgotten her in the ensuing chaos. He had not, his indignant expression showed. Syl ignored him, studiously fixing her gaze on the empty door. The shouts grew louder, and the clang of steel filled the uneasy silence. _Why did they stand and do nothing?_

Syl snuck a glance at the Silvenar who merely stared at her with that same curiously knowing expression.

"I'm going, Master Aelan. We cannot afford to stand and wonder," Syl said quietly. She hated the very idea of incurring his disappointment.

"Know your place, girl!" her mentor snapped.

"Let her go, Aelan" was all the Silvenar said, in a quiet, thoughtful tone.

Master Aelan shook his head in anger, but waved her away with his hand. It was all Syl needed and she bolted to the door, her ivory-hewn bow in her hand, an arrow already nocked.

Glancing both ways, she found who opened the door and why he had not entered. Bent over the corpse of an antler-helmed guard stood a clanfear. It's beak glistened red as it jerked free the guard's intestines. Occupied as it was, it did not notice her until it fell, feathered in arrows. She ghosted towards it, beginning to reclaim her arrows. Who knew how precious a commodity they would become before the fight was done. Sounds of battle reached her from a nearby room, but as she rose to lope in that direction, she saw it.

The black arch was slick as if wet. She had seen the thing before, seen the runes carved along its edges, crude markings. A strong sense of something yet undone filled her. She glanced back with a grimace and walked through the rippling miasma.

* * *

The Daedra shrieked in its death throes and collapsed to the dull, black floor with a sickening thud. Syl grabbed her dagger from the gaping wound in its throat. She had to keep moving. Another might appear at any moment.

The smell of sulphur choked the air, and the wind blew with the heat of forge fire. Only Mehrunes Dagon could create a place such as this. Nothing lived except the Daedra she killed. She sprinted along the hallways.

Up, up. She had to go up. It was at the top of this tower somewhere, the sigil stone the hooked-nosed scholar had told her about. Syl ducked close to the wall, striated and pockmarked like melted stone flash frozen. It radiated heat. The hallway curved sharply both to the left and right. Through the open arch, she could see the sigil stone, a blazing eye of fire floating on the pedestal.

She darted crouched across the threshold. Arrogant fools to have left so important a thing unguarded.

The room was round, roughly hewn from the same black stone as the entire tower had been, as the ground of this place. And to the left an arch of slick black stone stood, the purple quagmire shivering. She did not even pause now before she ran through it.

Memories flickered in images one after another, blending together in a maddening cacophony. She knew them now as memories, although she could barely piece them together. She ran through black arches again and again. They came quicker with each one she entered. Until…

A circle of black stone, fifty paces wide stood before her. Its edge bordered by those black doors, her memories, encased in each arch. She spun around, dizzying herself with the constantly shifting windows into her past.

"Your will is strong," a hissing voice whispered. "Better for you had you not fought me. You would have died peacefully in your sleep. Now I will consume you whole. Either way, my Lady will get what she is after."

Syl spun on her heel to face the creature, and her stomach lurched. A spider daedra, cruel fangs exposed in her wide smile, moved closer. It's many legs clicked against the stone with each step. Syl nocked an arrow, and the daedra's smile deepened in wicked delight.

"What do you think to do with that, pet? You are in Vaermina's realm. Nothing can save you now," the daedra hissed.

Syl loosed her arrow, and it glanced the daedra's abdomen. Purple blood oozed from the gash, but it did little to slow the creature. It advanced swiftly, striking at Syl with pointed forelegs, like bristled spears. It was all she could to evade the blows. Deflecting what she could with a small leather buckler, Syl was driven back again and again. She loosed arrow after arrow, but with little time to fully extend the bow, they deflected off the creatures thick carapace and clattered to the ground ineffectively.

Syl threw the bow down, drawing the thin daggers from her boot in desperation. She knew she was losing, that it was only a matter of time before the creature ran her through with its cruel spears. She whirled the daggers, parrying the forelegs, closing the distance between them. If she would die, she would make the creature work for it. Pay for her life in its blood. She darted in, slashing quickly, and retreated in the span of a breath. She repeated the dance again and again, slash, parry, retreat. Slash, parry, retreat. Each strike left a ribbon of purple blood in its wake. Surface wounds, but the daedra was weakening. She too was flagging with fatigue. It was a race for who would tire first. Syl pressed forward with the last of her strength, thrusting the dagger hard at the creature's chest. Her blade bit into the daedra's white fleshed and it shrieked in pain.

Syl's screams joined it, white pain blinding her. She staggered back, clutching her thigh. Red bubbled between her fingers. She grit her teeth, and rose to an unsteady crouch. The daedra collapsed to the ground in a slumped pile of limbs. With its final gurgle, Syl's vision wavered. Blackness surrounded her, swallowed her. It was a welcome escape from the throbbing heat that wracked her body.


	5. Chapter 5

Chapter 5: Desperate Attempts

"You've done all you can, lad. There is no reason to die in this skeever infested hole with her."

Familiar voices warbled across the black void of a dreamless sleep, like sounds echoing from the bottom of a well.

"If you're planning on leaving, Ragnar, do it. You don't care about her. Why should you care about me?"

"No one has suggested we leave anyone behind, Vanirion."

Syl knew that voice, the precise diction now soothing and placating. Of all the people to survive the sandstorm, it had to be him. But this Vanirion? The only Vanirion she knew was from children's tales, fanciful stories of Valenwood's greatest thief and how he met his end, searching in vain for the purple blossomed trees.

"Master Arangar, have you assumed control of the expedition while this one was not looking? No. It is for this one to say when we go and when we stay," Daniya snapped.

"You speak as if there is an expedition left! It is gone, dead alongside those poor souls still trapped in the storm," the Altmer retorted.

Their argument grew heated, and Syl willed wakefulness into her aching head. There was not time for this. Danger lurked in the ruin, and here they sat squabbling like bantam guar over the last bit of slop, never realizing they were the dinner. The groaning protest of her body cut off their bickering as if with a knife. She pushed herself off the stone floor with some effort. Every eye was upon her, looks ranging from concern to open curiosity on their faces. A stony glare settled on Daniya's fair features.

"Vanirion? Vanirion the Thief?" Syl asked weakly. A Bosmer name, and there was only one other than she in the whole of their small party. It struck her as curious that he had not bothered to give his name or she to ask until now. The Bosmer youth shrugged his shoulders. The guttering fire did little to hide the red in his face. Whether given or taken, it was a name hard to live up to.

Syl inched towards the small circle of light cast by the campfire, reaching out her hand to accept the heat it proffered. She did not remember it being so cold. She took the chunk of dried sweet meat and eidar cheese the Nord handed her.

"How was it that you found me? I cannot say that I am displeased, but how?" Syl asked between bites. She suddenly realized how long it had been since last she had eaten. It took a conscious effort to remember to chew.

Vanirion shifted, pointing to her right. The roan hound lay with his head resting on her cloak. "It was him. Your dog led us right to you. Without him, we would have likely been lost in the storm."

In all the excitement, she had all but forgotten the animal's existence. She should have known, he would have been drawn to her, if they both still drew breath. The link between them was still strong. Without a word, she tossed a hunk of meat to the hound. He thumped his tail in gratitude before swallowing it whole. Luck piled upon luck. Had she had not met the animal, what would have happened to these people? It was a thing she did not enjoy thinking of. And this place, wherever they were, was hardly much safer.

"That is all well and good, but we must leave this place. It is not safe to tarry here," Syl said.

"Aye. So I've been saying. This place stinks of magic," the Nord said. He cast anxious looks at the shadows dancing in the firelight.

"I fear you are right, my lady ranger. My barrier will hold for a time, but it is not limitless, I am afraid. I am loathe to admit it, but Alteration has never been my specialty."

"What do you know of this place, Bosmer? You speak of a danger well known," Daniya asked. Her voice was cold steel.

"I know nothing of the place, but… It is strange to speak of. In a dream, I battled a daedra who spoke of Vaermina." Syl proceeded with her strange tale. She glossed over much of what had happened. It was hardly any of their business. Syl knew that there were holes in her story large enough for a mammoth to amble through, but she hoped that since it had been a dream, they would accept a certain level of vagueness. She examined the faces of her companions to see if they noticed. They did not seem to. Vanirion stared into the fire perhaps a little too studiously. The Altmer wore an expression of thoughtful consideration, and Daniya and the Nord shared a grim scowl.

"That explains much," the Altmer muttered. The Bosmer youth nodded. Syl favored them both with a questioning look.

"You had those wounds when we found you. The exact ones you spoke of." Vanirion shook his head with a worried frown. He shivered. "Master Arangar was able to heal the worst of it with his magic. You wouldn't wake up, and there was so much blood, we all thought you were already dead."

"Not dead. Not for lack of trying I imagine. I owe you my thanks, Master Arangar," Syl said stiffly.

"Think nothing of it," he murmured, still lost in that distant expression.

He used his magic… on her. She was not willing to admit she had been wrong about him. Not willing to admit that he could have done away with her as easily as a babe in swaddling clothes. She did not like the idea of owing that one a blood debt or acknowledging how helpless she had truly been. Syl stood and gingerly tested her leg. It could hold her weight well enough. Of the wound in her thigh, only a deep ache remained. Almost as good as new. "Thanks to Master Arangar, I am ready to move. Daniya?"

The woman shook herself, spared Syl a cold glare and a tight nod. The Bosmer gathered up her pack and weapons, and waited for the others by the tall entryway that led out into the plaza. The others moved lethargically, gathering up their possessions, putting out the fire. It made Syl anxious. They needed to leave this place. She was more than willing to take her chances out there in the desert, rather than wait for Y'ffre knew what to ambush them here.

"Daniya can stand this no longer! Where is Kabal? Where is he? Nothing in that story of yours mentioned anything of he! What have you done with him?"

"What have I done with him?! Nothing! He was here," Syl protested. She scanned the room anxiously. Her saddle lay discarded in a heap along the wall. Just as she remembered leaving it. Could he have wandered off or worse yet been taken? "He was here," Syl said again weakly.

"And now he is not! And you have given to him less interest than a lost arrow. Where is he?!" Daniya nearly shrieked out the last of her words.

"It is not my f…" Syl began and then snapped her mouth shut. Shame nearly burned her to ash. She had not even noticed he was missing. Could she think of anything other than her own wellbeing? With a self-admonishing sigh, she slid her bow off her shoulder. "You speak truth, Daniya. I will find him. Try, at the least. He deserves that much."

Syl jogged across the room, pausing at the doorless arch leading deeper into the ruin. She grimaced. It looked too much like those in her dream.

"Hold Bosmer. We will go with you," Daniya said. She shot a defiant glance around the party, daring anyone to argue. None did.

Their insistent shouts filled the empty corridors. Silence and the echoes of their voices answered them. Syl could see nothing beyond the pale circle of light that emanated from a blue sphere orbiting the mage's head. Outside, the darkness felt absolute. Daniya walked apart from the party, a few paces ahead. Kurjza was a ghost at her heel. The blue light caught his fur, painting him an eerie white shape in the darkness.

"Daniya, come into the light where you might be able to see. You will help nothing by falling and breaking your leg," Syl suggested as patiently as she could manage.

"Daniya can see just fine. Attend to your own business, elf," the woman snapped.

Irritation prickled Syl's spine. Syl opened her mouth to tell the woman exactly what she thought about this brand of foolishness. Vanirion forestalled her with a touch on her shoulder. "Khajiit can see in the dark," he whispered gently. His voice said he was explaining that water was wet.

"So you say." Syl narrowed her eyes in irritation. Master Aelan did not know the first thing about thankless tasks, and by now Syl fancied herself as becoming quite the expert in such endeavors. How Syl was expected to find the senche no one had supplied, but she was expected to nonetheless. The most thankless of all thankless tasks. When she saw that cat again... Recalling that he was the size of a large horse, with sharp fangs and claws, she decided not to finish the thought.

A barely imperceptible growl drifted through the corridor, silencing her thoughts. "Hold!" she gritted out in a harsh whisper. The mage's light winked out and darkness enveloped them. No one dared to breathe. For a time the silence roared, interrupted only by the scrapping of iron against iron as the Nord shifted in his armor. Then a shrill squawk shrieked in the distance, followed by a muted roar. She would know that reedy cry anywhere…

"Clanfear," Syl said in a breathy whisper.

"Kabal," Daniya echoed.

They both dashed forward, heedless of the darkness. Every ounce of focus was distilled, trained on the sound buried under the rhythmic scuff of her soft soled boots on the uneven stone. The others followed a few paces back, she could hear. The heavy thunk of the Nord's footfalls might be heard for a mile off. She winced subconsciously with his every step. Stealth was obviously no longer an option. Syl followed Daniya around a corner.

The corridor was bathed in yellow light from an open doorway. The scene within caused Syl's stomach to tighten. She was never comfortable with the sight of daedra, and she doubted if she ever would be. However, a room teeming with them was something she was altogether unprepared for. Kabal held the high ground, standing on what appeared to be an altar, but it was obvious that he would not last for long. Blood matted his fur from long gashes on his sides. Half of his face was now a bloody ruin. A group of clanfear circled him, six or more, lunging forward, their beaks glistening red. Others lazily feasted on their fallen companions. Kabal pushed them back with a sweep of his massive paw. Several daedra lay in motionless heaps, strewn throughout the room, but there were many more left.

Syl loosed an arrow before they crossed the threshold, hoping for a second's advantage on the distracted creatures. One fell, thrashing on the ground. It's reedy shrieks signalled the others to their presence. A moment's reprieve for Kabal, the pack of clanfear trained their attention on the newly arrived interlopers.

Ragnar charged headlong into the room. His voice boomed out some unintelligible battlecry and to Syl's shock and amazement, the daedra rushing towards him staggered back as if pushed by an invisible wall. He took advantage of the chaos it caused in their ranks. His battle axe carved a silver arc in the air.

The Altmer was close on the Nord's heels, in the thick of the melee. His hands alternated between shooting tremendous gouts of flame and spraying clouds of lightning. The sweet aroma of burning flesh clung to the air. Pleasant when compared against the stench of sweat and blood. The clanfears' stabbing beaks glanced off some invisible shield surrounding the mage.

The roan hound leaped from one opponent to the next, jaws snapping closed around a throat or hamstring. Syl could almost taste the acrid tangy blood in her own mouth. Vanirion crept unseen among the chaos, even Syl's eyes slid over him, barely catching his movements in the throng of battle. His short blade cruelly carved red gashes in the throats of the fallen.

Syl held back, choosing her targets with precision. A clanfear, readying itself for a charge, collapsed in a silent heap, an arrow protruding from its eye. Another, circling wide of Kurjza's snapping maw and hoping to flank the white-maned senche while he was distracted by its fellows, gurgled its last shriek as an arrow sprouted from its throat.

Syl could not say if it lasted minutes or hours, but the battle seemed to rage for years and was over in seconds. Everyone paused to catch their breath. Arangar and Vanirion knelt beside Kabal, Vanirion's hands illuminated in a pale, golden light as Arangar nodded over him approvingly. Healing magic, and Kabal surely needed it.

"A tenacious fight, friend. I have never seen the like before," Syl praised Kabal. Half of his face was still matted with black blood, but the gashes and broken bones had knit themselves back together. His left eye remained shut. They could not save it. Syl figured it a small price to pay considering the body count reached seventeen clanfear. He was lucky to escape with his life.

"More foolish stupidity than bravery. You are a bad influence, Bosmer. This one knew you should have rode a camel. He thought to scout alone, he says. Thought to find us, he says. As if Daniya would be fool enough to go skulking about in daedric ruins. Pah! Of all the fool things!"

"When will he be ready to move? It has become more urgent than ever. This place is not as abandoned as it first appeared," Syl asked.

"It won't be long. Master Arangar is giving him a potion to help with fatigue," Vanirion answered.

"Leave? Pathetic mortals! You think I will allow you to leave after you have desecrated my Prince's temple," a voice hissed in outrage. The walls reverberated. The voice came from everywhere at once as if it were the walls that shouted them down in fury.

"The spider daedra from my dream. She is no easy meat," Syl said, worriedly checking her quiver to find its contents woefully inadequate.

"Let her come," Ragnar growled, clenching and unclenching his fists.

The skittering of millions of tiny legs striking the stone floor entered their earshot. "No, if Kabal can run, we run," Syl insisted.

"I run from nothing!" Ragnar roared defiantly, hefting his battleaxe.

"Think with more than the hair on your chest!" Syl snapped. "Think and listen. How many daedra do your ears tell you are out there? Mine say more than I can count. More than I can kill. Are you so eager to waste your life, Nord?"

Presently, the door they had entered through filled with a seething mass of shapes. Syl urged her companions through the opposite door, guarding the rear. A sea of miniaturized versions of the spider daedra swelled forward, breaking against the threshold of the door. The creatures skittered across the ceiling and walls. Syl shot blindly, retreating down the hall backwards, loosing arrow after arrow. When one would hit its mark, the creature tumbled to the ground and instantly disappeared from sight, swallowed by the roiling mass of daedra beyond counting. Syl reached down into her quiver to grab another arrow, but her hand came back empty. She turned and ran. The daedra's collective shriek of outrage flogged her. Her heart thundered panic in her veins.

Syl focused all her attention on a light ahead, blue white light. Somewhere in the back of her mind, a cruel voice taunted her. She would die here. They would all die here. And the Silvenar. How long would he survive her? Their lives were bound together in the Green. Her muscles burned, her lungs ached. Would her people survive leaderless until a new Silvenar was chosen?

A scream of animalistic rage bloomed in her throat. Denial of what would come, of the sea of death surging behind her. Cut short by metal spikes slamming shut behind her.

She whirled on her heel and staggered back in exhaustion. Vanirion's hands were white-knuckled on a lever. He smiled weakly. The daedra screamed in outrage, pushing in a seething mass against the metal grate.

"Hurry, you fool," Daniya shouted.

The Altmer fumbled with a pillar in the center of the room. A blue aura wavered around him, illuminating the cracked stone. "I am. It is badly damaged. There is no telling where it will take us. Perhaps to the bottom of the ocean, who can say? It requires concentration."

"Anywhere is better than here!" Daniya snapped.

"Ah! It bit me!" Vanirion sharp shout drew Syl's attention. A daedra managed to wriggle its way through the gate. The youth dodged back, clutching his left hand. Before she fully turned, her bone knife left her hand to bloom in the creature's throat.

"Are you alright?" Syl asked, trotting to his side to investigate.

"I'm fine. I'll be fine," he said. He didn't relieve his grip on his hand though.

"Let me see it," Syl ordered, but in the act of pulling back his hand, the Altmer's impatient voice halted her.

"Now!" The Altmer shouted. "To my side!"

Syl looked longingly back to her knife, a gift from her father. She muttered a curse and dashed towards the pillar. A brilliant white light enveloped her.

Seconds later…

Syl fell to her hands and knees from the shock of whatever had happened. She blinked, not believing the sight before her eyes. Grass, tender green ribbons jut out from the rocky earth. Above, an expanse of rolling green hills, as far as the eye could see, stretched out before her, bathed in the pink of the new dawn's rays.

"Where… Where are we?" Vanirion gaped.

"The Plains of Torval," Daniya murmured softly, mystified.

"Good. At least we are still in Elsweyr…" Arangar muttered wearily, slumping against a pillar that was almost a twin to the one they had seen in the daedric ruin. "Yes, yes, that is good. The Guildmaster would be proud."


	6. Chapter 6

Chapter 6: An Unforeseen Rescue

The sun climbed to its apex in the sky and glared down at the five weary travelers making their way along the Ankar Road. Daniya had called it a road, but it was little more than a dirt path following a small stream, a thin strip of water gurgling in a cracked bed of red clay. Syl noticed the Khajiit here had a penchant for exaggeration. This footpath was supposedly a road and Syl was more than shocked when Daniya identified the insignificant trickle to be a river.

The land around them began to slowly change, rolling hills banked into a bowled valley. Straw colored buildings dotted the plain and hedges built from round rocks cordoned off neat little squares of earth. Some were filled with tidy rows of bristled brown stalks, while others were left fallow. _A moon sugar plantation_, Syl thought with a haughty sniff. The produce of this sprawling farm was the very embodiment of Khajiiti indolence.

The footpath widened now, enough that they could all walk abreast of each other and the distant buildings grew more frequent and closer to the road. The two-track dirt road turned sharply two hundred paces ahead to divide a cluster of four stone buildings at the plantation's center. The three closest were wide, squarish structures, built of the same stone as the fences, and the gabled roof of the largest building, the main plantation house Syl assumed, was sheltered from view by the three squat roofs.

Daniya and Syl, with Vanirion sitting behind her, now rode in the smooth trenches cut into the grass by many years of wagon travel. It was empty now, though. It seemed strange to Syl how a road so well worn would stand empty in mid-day. In fact, the whole valley had the feel of a place newly abandoned. There was a thatch roofed hut on the other side of the stream. Its door stood ajar and farming tools lay neglected beside the tall stalks of moon sugar cane. Whoever had left had done so in a hurry. Syl's hand itched for her bow, despite knowing her quiver was empty.

"I thought you said this place was safe," Syl hissed at Daniya through clenched teeth.

"It is supposed to be," Daniya replied in a whisper, tight with concern.

The faint scent of smoke drifted through the eerie silence of the plantation, a thick aromatic scent. Syl had smelled it only once before, but it was unmistakable. The experience was a singular one that she was not likely to forget. An unbidden shiver shook her as she recalled the image of Joharrah's sharp fangs bared in that knowing grin.

"The skooma is burning," Syl said. Behind her, she could hear the Nord rattling his battle axe loose from the leather cords that kept it strapped to his back.

"It is moon sugar," Daniya insisted sharply, as if there were some sort of distinction. "What do they teach in that beetle infested forest?"

"Hoarvers," Syl corrected stolidly. She narrowed her eyes, searching the field that separated them from the main plantation house. Nothing moved in the spiny brown rows but the wind. She could see the heavy white plume now, creeping between two of the square buildings.

"What?" Daniya asked. Confusion wrinkled the catlike markings on her face.

"They are called hoarvers," Syl repeated as she slid off Kabal's back. Her eyes never stopped their vigilant circuit. "I am going to scout ahead. Listen for a dove's cry, one for safe passage, three, if not."

"I'm coming with you," Vanirion insisted.

"It isn't that I don't trust your skill, boy. You have certainly proven yourself there," Syl said slowly.

Syl remembered the boy blending into the chaos of battle, just the night before. His life in the streets certainly taught him Stealth, but the bite he took at Vaermina's temple still worried her. Syl had been certain he and the mage would have walked with their heads huddled together. But they had not. Vanirion asked to ride behind her not long after they departed their camp at the base of the pillar. And she noticed he often gripped his wounded hand behind her back.

"The more people, the more likely it is we will be spotted. It is not that far ahead," she added judiciously.

"But you don't have…" A coughing fit choked off his words. "You don't even have any weapons."

"With luck, I won't need them," Syl said.

"And if you don't have luck," the young Bosmer croaked. "What then?"

"I…" Syl didn't have an answer. She didn't need weapons, but… She glanced up. The plume of smoke hung larger now, more ominous in the sky.

"At least take this." He produced a dagger seemingly from air. Its jagged black edge curved to a cruel point. She flexed her grip around the leather wrapped hilt. It was a crude blade, but it would kill as good as any. She nodded curtly and loped off in the direction of the smoke.

She skirted close to cover, and ran close to the ground when cover wasn't available. In the space of a few heartbeats, she closed the distance between her small party and the plantation's heart. Muffled groans drew Syl's attention, and she crept forward, blending into the midday shadow cast by the first of the three squat, stone structures.

Leaned against the wall, a Khajiit sat hunched, moaning softly into his hands. He was difficult to see in the shadow's gloom. His striped grey fur almost perfectly matched the striated light filtering through the thick brush of cane. Had he been silent, she might have walked right past him without seeing him.

"Oh! They will kill Kalbani. Poor Kalbani," he quavered.

Syl ghosted up to him silently through the brush, and seized his muzzle in her hands, stifling his alarmed cries. He struggled vainly against her for a moment, batting against her arms and shoulders. She tightened her grip to the point of pain, and the Khajiit immediately stilled, whimpering.

"Cry out and you will die. Now, tell me who you are and what is happening here," Syl hissed almost inaudibly. She slacked her grip on the feline's muzzle, and he nodded his acquiescence vigorously.

"Kalbani is foreman to Clan Mother S'Ranna. He is simple Khajiit. His blood is not worthy of your blade. Please do not kill poor Kalbani. He will tell you all he knows!" His words tumbled out rapidly. With his strangely slurred speech, it was difficult to comprehend all he said.

"Compose yourself, fool. What has unmanned you so?" Syl snapped.

"The Thalmor," he wailed. "The Thalmor have come. They have burned Kalbani's moon sugar, and for why? What does Kalbani know of Bosmer fugitives?"

Syl stiffened at his every word. Thalmor, the word was an all encompassing fear and rage. That they were hunting her… The thought coalesced into a ball of lead in the pit of her stomach. How could they know to search for her here? She had not known she would come to this place, not even that morning. She was five hundred leagues south of any trail she may have set, and that would include them seeing through the web of false trails she left on her way to Dune. She was no beginner to this game, and it would take a skilled tracker to see her attempts at misdirection. She was at once eager for any chance to kill even one more justiciar and cautious of the risk each encounter posed. The Thalmor were no easy prey.

As if seeing her for the first time, Kalbani's green eyes burned with a light of recognition. "You…" the Khajiit exhaled.

Without thought, the borrowed dagger flashed in her hand, and all the muscles in her body spasmed to a halt as she forced herself to stop just short of driving the cruel point deep into the cat's throat. Kalbani stared in wide-eyed terror at the jagged blade. Between heaving breaths, Syl gritted out, "I meant what I said, cat. Make a sound, and I will kill you where you sit. Get up. You're coming with me."

"Please do not kill Kalbani," he wailed, wriggling on the ground. He was being too loud. Syl tried to look everywhere at once.

"Get up," she hissed, nudging him sharply with the heel of her soft soled boot.

Kalbani grunted but rose, and let himself be led on a meandering path through the moon sugar fields, and out onto the road. The sharp leaves of the cane plants left paper thin lacerations on her exposed arms that itched and burned almost immediately. It's why she hadn't taken this route from the first. But what were a few cuts compared to bringing the Thalmor down on her. She pushed Kalbani forward with an irritated shove, out of the cane brush and into the awaiting circle of her companions.

"Bosmer, Daniya heard no… Kalbani?!" Daniya's words evaporated in a strangled croak. Color drained from her face as the spark of recognition grew . "If you are here then Mother is… No, no, no, no. Tell this one she is not with you."

"Vasha? By Jone and Jode, it is you! You should choose your traveling companions more wisely, Vasha." Kalbani's wonderment was brief, before launching into his chastisement of this Vasha. Syl vaguely recalled Daniya's words, 'in some circles.' It appeared in this circle, she was known to all by another name. The newfound belief that Kalbani was in the presence of an ally, bolstered his spirits profoundly. He pointed an accusing claw in Syl's direction with a disparaging look. "That one is hunted by the Thalmor."

"This is a well and truly touching reunion, but perhaps we should like to continue this elsewhere. With more discretion, perhaps? Just a modicum," Arangar said, inclining his head and dry-washing his hands. His bow did little to hide his furtive glances towards the plume of smoke and back again.

Arangar ushered them all into an abandoned thatch hut like a goodwife herding bantam guar. Syl sat on the dirt floor while the others took places on the hut's simple furnishings, a rough hewn table with four chairs. Ragnar loomed by the doorway like a statue, his expressionless face looked carved from stone.

"Now, sir. If you don't mind, it would be preferable to begin… at the beginning," Arangar said, soothingly.

"Yes. Kalbani, what has happened here?" Daniya asked.

"Vasha, it is terrible," the Khajiit moaned. "The Thalmor have burned Kabani's moon sugar, and wanted to burn the plants! Kalbani barely escaped with his life."

For as much as the cat quaked in terror at the thought of his own violent end, it was obvious which he thought was the worse crime.

"But why would they do such a thing?" Arangar asked. His brow furrowed in consternation.

"Since when do the Thalmor need a reason to set something ablaze?" Syl growled. In her experience, the Thalmor were exceedingly generous in the eagerness for destruction. Ragnar spat in what Syl assumed was agreement.

"It is her!" Kalbani hissed. His lips curled back in snarl. "She brought them here. How many Bosmeri shes are running loose in Ankar?"

"Considering our proximity to Valenwood, I surmise there are a great number indeed. What evidence do you have that implicates our friend here?" Arangar said sharply, his tone no longer soothing. He leaned forward, towering with a height that surprised Syl in its ability to intimidate. Kalbani noticed, too, shrinking back in his chair.

"Enough!" Syl barked. The senseless questioning had persisted long enough. The fool knew nothing of value, just repeated his accusation ceaselessly. "How many justiciars are we talking about? Enough to hold captive your workers and burn your farm. So, ten? Twenty?"

"Three," Kalbani croaked. He seemed to be imagining twenty justiciars raiding the plantation. He moaned unintelligibly now.

Syl choked down a laugh of derision. "Three?" You let only that many do all this?!"

"And what would you have Kalbani do, Bosmer?" Kalbani spat.

"Kill them. Which is what I intend to do right now," Syl said simply. She was halfway to the door when Kalbani's shout stopped her.

"No! They have Clan Mother S'Ranna!"

"And you only tell us this now! Kalbani is a fool of fools!" Daniya shouted. Her anger dissolved into a worried frown.

"All the more reason then," Ragnar said, his face split in a wide smile. He sniffed the air. "It is a good day to die, Khajiit. Let's go."

* * *

"It is madness. Absolute madness," Kalbani muttered to himself. He crouched farthest from the door, clutching his head between his hands. "We will all be killed. Tortured and _then_ killed. Kalbani's moon sugar, gone. Kalbani…"

"Will you shut up already?" Ragnar whispered gruffly, kicking at the Khajiit who shifted deftly to avoid the blow. The Nord had taken a foul humor when he learned he would guard their escape, and Kalbani bore the brunt of it.

"The both of you shu-…" Arangar began harshly. He shook his head. "... may wish to consider the task at hand."

They were all on edge. Even the Altmer kept his temper on a short leash. Syl forced a snarl back, glaring balefully at the cringing Khajiit. His very presence jeopardized the entire mission. She regretted letting him live. She grimaced, reminding herself to live in the Now. What is, is, and she could do little to change it now.

"Remember your assignments. We will only have one chance to catch them unaware. There may only be three, but we should not be careless. Move with Stealth, or do not move at all. The Clan Mother's life may depend on it," Syl reviewed for what felt like the fifth time, and even still, her confidence was shaky. They had the numerical superiority, but their odds of rescuing the hostage were abysmal. She eyed each of her companions in turn, with varying degrees of enthusiasm. Vanirion, looking grey in the face, leaned against the wall. Ragnar and Arangar stood apart with matched looks of grim determination, and Daniya whispered soothingly at Kalbani. Her voice had a purring lilt to it.

"Ready yourselves," Syl said, and pushed open the door that lead into the manor's kitchen. Brown stew oozed from an overturned kettle in the fireplace, and dough sat abandoned on the floured countertop, left to rise in a lopsided lump. Syl exhaled a breath she had not realized she held and crept into the kitchen, mindful of even the sound of sand crunching beneath her soft leather boots. They fanned out, canvassing the room. It proved as empty as it appeared, as if the cooks and scullery maids had disappeared in the midst of their dinner preparation. Not even the small cats remained to run in the wicker wheels and turn the roasts, one side burned to a blackened crisp on the metal spit.

They cautiously moved deeper into the house, finding the dining room, parlor, and study as equally abandoned as the kitchen. The connecting hallway emptied into an open foyer, dominated by staircase leading to the upper floor. After several steps it forked to the left and right.

"We go up. Daniya, take Vanirion and Kalbani to search left. Arangar and I will go right. Give a shout and we will come running," Syl ordered in a voice firm enough to have quelled any argument. Surprisingly, there were none, just agreement nodded around the small circle.

Syl mounted the steps, Arangar heeling close behind. The soft whisking of his silken robes thundered in the foreboding silence. The stairway turned into a narrow hallway lined by three doors. Upon nearing the second, Arangar placed a halting hand on her shoulder.

"There is a warding here. Faint, but I can feel it," he whispered, touching a tentative hand to the paneled oak door. A plate-sized magical glyph glowed white under his palm and the mage tsked softly. "Alteration magic," he muttered irritably.

"I may be able to dispel the warding, but there is a chance that we will be detected," Arangar said. Syl nodded, gripping the borrowed dagger to the point where her knuckles ached. The mage's sonorous voice hummed an incantation. His palm still rested on the white glyph. When his murmured chanting drew to a close the glyph winked out, and muffled snarling filtered into the hall.

"We will ask you once more. Where is the Bosmer?" a deep voice ordered. Each word cracked like a whip, harsh but lacking anger. Instead his voice was cold, exacting. A mer used to asking questions and getting his answers one way or another.

"Sheggorath's madness consume you!" a second voice growled, defiant.

"Wrong answer," another voice chided in an almost motherly way, followed by an unintelligible roar with force enough to shake the door. The kindly voice was at odds with the guttural bellows issuing from the room. "Really, this would go far easier for you if you just cooperated."

"I am growing weary of this charade," yet another voice hummed, haughty and bored. He was the captain of this band of justiciars, by Syl's estimation. "Kill her if she will not speak, but let's have this finished. We can find this mer with or without her."

"As you command," the first voice responded.

"The door. Fling it open," Syl ordered, her voice near to silence. Arangar gave her borrowed dagger a worried look. "Now! We do not have the time."

He gave a tight nod, and a burst of air swept through the narrow passageway, knocking the door off its hinges and into the room. The bedchamber erupted in startled cries and the captain barked orders trying to gain a semblance of control. Syl bounded forward, slashing at the justiciar closest to the threshold. The female Altmer was trapped beneath the door, her hands spewing gouts of flame between her attempts to extricate herself. Arangar followed close behind. His wind a veritable torrent now, fanning the justiciars flames that smoldered in the carpets. Black smoke began to choke the small room.

Syl parried and struck at her opponent in a flurried melee. He matched her stroke for stroke. Behind her, the captain circled around, blade drawn. Just as he was about to strike, a multitude of crystalline blades drove into his chest. He staggered backwards, triggering a magical glyph that materialized behind him. Ice crept slowly up the captain's thigh in a creaking sound almost lost to the din of battle. It encased the mer in thick white sheets of ice up to his neck. His head lolled forward, blank eyes staring at the floor. The bedchamber grew colder in the instant, and the growing flames winked out as if they had never been.

Syl's opponent backed away, gaping and momentarily off balance. Not for very long, but long enough for Syl to slip the blade between his ribs. The mer gurgled as he fell, red already bubbling at his lips.

That left the Altmer mage, who had ceased her vain struggle with the door. Her golden eyes were filled with fear, and she sobbed incoherently. Syl eyed her narrowly, hefting her dagger. As she was about to address the woman, the captive, hitherto silent, swung a heavy brass candlestick down on the woman's head. It ended the justiciar's jumbled pleas with a sickening crunch.

The Clan Mother drew herself up to her full height, which was not considerable, being only a hand taller than Syl. Although, she carried herself with a dignity that made her seem to tower over the Bosmer. She straightened the tattered remnants of her once fine silk dress. Despite her efforts, the clinging fabric did little to hide the thin red stripes of blood matted in her white fur. Her mane was braided, much in the same fashion as Joharrah's had been, although many of the braids lacked their ornamental bells. Her uncertain blue eyes flitted between Syl and the Altmer.

"Clan Mother S'Ranna, I presume," Arangar said, bowing deeply at the waist. "I pray that you have not been injured overmuch. The Thalmor have been a regrettable turn of events politically for the Summerset Isles. My sincerest apologies, good mistress."

"The understatement of the Era," the Clan Mother scoffed. Her disdain did little to hide the sultry quality in her purring voice. "Now tell S'Ranna, did that sniveling goat Kalbani make it out alive? Because if he has, S'Ranna will gut him like so many fishes."

The Altmer cleared his throat uncomfortably. "Ah, indeed he has, my lady. He… He valiantly encouraged our party to assist you in your plight."

It was Syl's turn to scoff.

"He did need some encouragement himself," Syl sneered. If Arangar chose to defend the lout, that was his own business, but she would not.

"Ah y-yes.. just so," Arangar said, abashed.

"Master Arangar, please see to Clan Mother S'Ranna's wounds, if it pleases her. I will gather the rest of our… friends." Syl stumbled over the word awkwardly. She made a tight bow to the Clan Mother and left the room.

She walked briskly across the foyer's staircase and into the opposite hall, a mirror to the one she had just left. As soon as she turned the corner her eyes met with the gray striped Kalbani, skulking along the wall.

"Where are the others?" Syl hissed, and Kalbani jumped nearly out of his pelt.

"Kalbani was sent to find you. The boy… He… Kalbani thinks the boy is dying."


End file.
